Every Rose Has Its Thorn
by FlyersGirl1
Summary: Ron and Hermione navigate grownup waters, from Ron's perspective.


**Chapter 1.**

"Again?" Hermione Granger stares in disbelief at her husband.

"I'm sorry—it's—we may have found a lead."

"You got home two days ago."

"I know," Ron Weasley responds wearily.

"You were away for almost two weeks."

"I know," Ron sighs. "I'm sorry. If there was anything I could—"

"Right, there's nothing you can ever do."

"I'm deputy of the department—my _job_ is ground ops. Who's going to do it for me? What do you want me to do, 'Mine?" his voice betrays exasperation.

"Come home once in a bloody while. That's what I want you to do. _Stay_ home once in a bloody while."

"'Mione, I'm doing the best I can—Cranford's about to retire and Kingsley's promised—"

"Enough, I've heard it already. We're trying to have a baby. How are we supposed to make a baby when you're never here?"

"Maybe instead of arguing about me leaving again we could make one now," Ron grins, attempting to lighten the mood. "I could spare a few minutes," he glances at his watch.

"Maybe you could pencil me in once a month—you know, in between trips," Hermione snaps.

"Trips? Do you think this is fucking leisure travel?"

"I know what it bloody is, Ron. Don't patronize me."

"Damnit, Hermione—I am trying my best here," Ron tries to keep the edge out of his voice.

"When we got married you didn't tell me that you'd be gone for 85 percent of it!"

"When we got married you didn't tell me you'd resent every bloody promotion I got."

Hermione blanches. She opens her mouth to speak and then closes it again. "You think I . . . _resent_ what you've done?"

"Yeah, sometimes I do."

"I don't—I don't know what to say."

"Well, there's something new."

"Fuck you, Ronald."

Ron picks up his rucksack and heads to the door. "I have to go."

"Fine. _Go_. Like you always do."

Ron slams the bag down on the ground and spins around. "Let's get one thing straight—every fucking thing I've done, I've done for _you_. You wanted a _successful_ husband?" he glares at her. "You have one. You wanted a nice house? You have one. You wanted—_things_—" he splutters in disgust, gesturing wildly around him. "You buy whatever you bloody want without a single bloody thought to where that money comes from. While you use your 2,000 NEWT qualifications organizing bloody elf rights in the bloody public defender's office. So let's hear no more of this bull shit."

Hermione swallows and tries—unsuccessfully—to stop tears from pouring down her face. "Is that—is that what you really think?"

"Fuck," Ron mutters angrily, more to himself than to her. "No. It's not. I can't do this now, 'Mione," he averts his eyes from her tears. He feels his resolve weakening. He's based his entire career on being strong, unbreakable, unyielding—but Hermione's tears . . . he's not strong enough for those.

"You never can," Hermione whispers. "You don't even—you have no time for me at all. You're—you're so consumed by this life," she spits out. "You're the perfect auror. Perfect deputy. You'll be the 'youngest head in history,'" she mimics a recent Daily Prophet puff piece on Ron. "You spend more time with _reporters_ than with me. This is what you think I wanted? I don't even recognize you anymore."

Ron shakes his head. "I don't . . . That's not . . . I—I love you, 'Mine," he says softly. He opens the front door without another word. He looks back at her, and then closes it behind him quietly.

**Chapter 2.**

When Ron slams his overnight bag onto the desk of his opulent Ministry office, he feels like punching his fist through one of its walls. But he doesn't have time to dwell on the latest fight with Hermione—when does he have time for personal crises these days?—because his Ops team is walking through the door.

"Sir," Brad Carlson approaches his boss nervously, clutching maps marking possible capture points.

Ron closes his eyes briefly and re-opens them again, vowing to focus on what matters right now. They may have Carrow. "What?"

"Here are the maps you requested," Carlson says quickly.

"Rogerson, get in here," Ron calls.

"Yes, sir," Mike Rogerson appears in front of him almost instantaneously. Ron pulls out his wand and flashes a projection on the blank wall in front of him, matching up past sightings with the points highlighted on the various maps that Carlson has brought him.

"Where do we start?"

"Here, I was thinking, sir," Rogerson points to a small spot on the wall where some seven points have been mapped together.

"Gray?"

"Yes, sir," Myron Gray appears next to Rogerson.

"How many days?"

"Seven now, sir. We've had surveillance on what we think is the safe house—it's blocked by charms—and a local pub. We've had three confirmed, and several additional sightings. Unconfirmed, sir," he adds. "He's bloody careful."

"The last one?"

"Forty minutes ago."

"Confirmed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sylvia," Ron calls for his secretary. She rushes in quickly, quill and parchment in hand. "Get a message to a Harry. Ask him to check in on my wife. Today, please."

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," his secretary nods.

"That's all," Ron says impatiently. Sylvia departs in a flustered manner.

"Okay," he nods at Gray, Rogerson, and Carlson. "Let's go," he grabs his bag and walks out, several men clambering out after him.

**Chapter 3.**

He drops his bag on the floor of his hotel room and collapses onto the king bed. It feels so soft. Of course, at this point, a wooden board would feel soft compared to the damp mud pit he's spent the last 18 hours in with too many other fucking aurors.

He stretches his arms and legs out across the comforter, rubbing his face in his hands. For how much longer can Carrow evade capture? Ron wouldn't have imagined—back when Carrow was just a lowly enforcer at Hogwarts getting his kicks out of torturing students—that he could elude the Ministry for so many years. His sister, Alecto—equally cruel, but (apparently) less cunning—was captured and imprisoned in Azkaban years ago.

You'd better be fucking worth it, Carrow, Ron thinks, sitting up to strip off his shirt. Like I'm not already in deep shit with Hermione, he snorts bitterly. Ron stands up and stretches, pulling off his dirt-caked pants, balling up his clothing, and tossing it all onto the floor. He glances at himself in the mirror as he heads toward the shower. God, I need one, he wrinkles his noise in disgust.

As far as things go, though, the image he sees staring back at him is a pretty impressive one. Scruffy red hair—still boyish—clash with worry lines betraying the many years of service to the Department of Aurors. Apparently, _too_ many years for his wife's liking. Well, she doesn't complain about the fitness requirements. Years of discipline have left him with a muscular frame, "six-pack" abs (he loves that one; he learned it from Muggle television!), and better biceps than he sported during his Quidditch days back at Hogwarts. Fat lot of good it does me, Ron smirks, stepping into the shower and turning on the water. I'm getting less sex now than I was at bloody Hogwarts.

He feels a little better when he towels off and changes into clean jeans, a cotton tee shirt, and a soft gray sweater that Hermione bought for him last month. She insists on outfitting him as he apparently has "no taste" in clothing—another way she's aimed to fix him. Ron sighs. He glances himself in the mirror, and he could pass for a Muggle—a well-dressed, professional Muggle. Which, he supposes, isn't a bad thing in his line of work. He doesn't even wear dress robes to the Ministry anymore—just a Muggle suit and tie, which he reckons he can get away with since he's responsible for surveillance. Blending in is his entire bloody job.

His family barely recognizes him anymore: the pure-blood Weasley who married a Muggle-born and effectively turned himself into one? Not that his father minds. Arthur Weasley clapped like a child at Christmas the day 'Mione's father invited him to a Tottenham game. Ron grins at the memory. But his grin fades as his fight with Hermione invades his thoughts again. Fuck it. There's a bar downstairs and I need a drink. Badly.

**Chapter 4.**

"Rough day?"

Ron glances sideways and matches the voice to a slim blonde, sitting two bar stools away from him. He's on his third whiskey. He hopes they don't have to travel far tomorrow.

"You could say so," he smiles ruefully. She's hot.

"In town for business?" The blonde looks sympathetic. She fishes an olive out of her martini and pops it into her mouth.

Ron nods and doesn't respond. He finishes his whiskey.

"Fucking sucks," she grins.

"Indeed," Ron grins back.

They sit quietly for another minute. Ron gestures toward the bartender, who approaches.

"'Nother?" He gestures toward her glass.

"Thanks."

"Another for her and one more of these for me," he raises he now-empty shot glass and cocks it slightly.

"Sure thing," the bartender nods, reaches for the empty glass, and turns back toward the bar to start mixing up another martini.

"So, what do you do?" the woman asks.

"Barrister," Ron lies easily. He can out-Muggle a Muggle any day. It pays to have Muggle in-laws and three tellies in his house. And years of training.

"No wonder you drink."

Ron chuckles. "You, too, then?"

The blonde wrinkles her nose as the bartender deposits another martini in front of her. "Thanks," she says to the bartender. "No way," she smiles at Ron. "Editor. Heard of the Baby Girl series?"

Ron stares at her blankly.

"Right," she laughs and pops another olive into her mouth. "Well, you're not the target audience, anyway."

Ron raises an eyebrow.

"Unless you're wearing a really impressive disguise," she whispers flirtatiously, "and you're _actually_ a teenage girl under all that." Her eyes graze his body suggestively.

"To the Baby Girl series," Ron raises his fresh glass of whiskey in salute with a devilish grin.

She laughs again and leans over, clinking her glass against his. He doesn't fail to notice the cleavage she flashes as she leans in his direction. Fuck, he thinks, downing number four. I've gotta go before I do something stupid. He pushes his glass away and drops a Muggle credit card onto the bar.

"Leaving already?" She looks disappointed. "You're the first attractive guy I've seen in this bloody town," she smiles ruefully.

Ron laughs, nodding at the bartender who takes the card and goes off to run his tab. "I appreciate that," he looks back at the blonde woman. "But yeah, long day tomorrow. I need some sleep."

The woman slides into the seat next to him. "Me, too."

"And I'm married," Ron adds.

"Lucky girl."

Ron almost snorts in response as the bartender returns his credit card along with the bill. He's pretty sure Hermione doesn't think so. Not these days, anyway. But to the blonde he merely smiles. "I'm the lucky one," he says lightly. He signs the bill and gets up, giving her a half wave.

"Thanks for the drink," the blonde raises her martini again.

Ron smiles at her. "Thanks for the company," he turns and walks away.

**Chapter 5.**

When he wanks off that night he thinks of the blonde . . . and of that fellow ginger in another bar on the last mission, or was it the one before that . . . and wasn't there that group of young women ogling him and Rogerson and Gray months ago when they were on assignment in Edinburgh? If only he could do to them what he's doing in his imagination right now. But Ron has never cheated on Hermione. Never. Ever. Ever. Not that he hasn't thought about it on occasion.

It's been so fucking hard being apart from her all the bloody time. Hermione's not wrong about that. He was better suited to this lifestyle when she was away at school. He pushed her to get her legal training post-Hogwarts mainly because it's what Hermione wanted (her passion for SPEW continues)—but it also allowed for intense solo work missions followed by sexy-as-hell reunions. They couldn't bloody get enough of each other in those days.

But now they're married and she—not entirely unreasonably, he knows—has expectations. Like he should be home for dinner. And they should have kids. She wants a baby. He doesn't _not_ want a baby, but it's pretty hard to make one when one of you (in fairness, it's never Hermione) is always out of town. Which makes every act of sex high stakes and always seems to involve Hermione timing it to her bloody cycles. And—Ron would challenge any man to disagree—the whole _purposeful_ baby-making process kind of takes the fun and spontaneity out of what used to be the best part of his welcome home routine. And when they're not timing their bloody sex sessions, she always seems to be yelling at him. Somehow, these days, he can do no wrong at the Ministry, and no _right_ at his own fucking house. Still, he shouldn't have said those things to her. He was a real prat. Ron sighs. Why can't things just be like they used to be?

Ron gasps when he finally comes. Alone. In another bloody hotel room hundreds of miles from the woman he loves. Thinking about a blonde woman he'll never see again.

**Chapter 6.**

Day four. No fucking sign of Carrow. He's slipped through the Ministry's fingers again. This time Ron actually does come close to putting his fist through a wall. He's as angry and frustrated with his job—with this whole fucking life—as he's ever been.

Rogerson, Carlson, Gray, and the two other senior aurors on the mission—Bendix and Jasper—are equally morose as they sit together at yet another hotel bar. They're all beginning to look the same now. The hotels, the bars, the drinks.

"What now?" Bendix asks solemnly.

"What now is I need to get a message to my wife," Ron mutters. "Gray, send a message to the Ministry; they need to let Hermione know that we're okay and we'll be home tomorrow."

"Yes, of course, sir," Gray rises quickly and heads for the makeshift war room the team has set up to plot next steps and transmit encrypted messages to and from London.

"_Are_ we going home tomorrow?" Rogerson asks Ron as they watch Gray walk out of the bar, presumably heading up to the bank of rooms the Ministry has reserved for its auror team.

"Nothing left for us to do here, is there?" Ron looks back at Rogerson, raising an eyebrow and downing the last of another whiskey. It's his third or fourth of the evening, but who's counting? He glances around the bar—old habit now, he can't be anywhere without knowing where all the doors and windows are, and how many people are around him at any given moment—and spots a group of giggly women shooting glances at their table. He looks away. Fucking hell—why are there always attractive women everywhere he goes these days? Or have they always been there, and he just hasn't noticed them before?

"I'm going," Ron sighs and pushes back his chair. He throws a couple of Muggle twenty-dollar bills on the table and rises. "Have the rooms cleaned out and double-checked—can't be leaving a Sneakoscope behind like Calderson did in Prague. That was just bush league," he snorts.

"Right, boss," Bendix grins in reply. "But if it's okay with you, we might hang out here a little longer. . . ." His eyes linger on the table of women that keeps casting glances their way. Ron's eyes follow Bendix's stare. The women seem to be enjoying the attention.

And why the hell not, Ron wonders, looking back at his table and the assorted young men occupying it. If the Ministry were going to award a "Best Looking" trophy to any department, it would probably be his. Some of their colleagues in other departments get winded just walking down the bloody hallway. And he ventures that not a single one of them could run ten kilometers up a hill carrying a weighted backpack. That was week one of auror training. Fuck it. His men deserve this.

Ron grins and shakes his head. "Just don't do anything stupid," the amused expression on his face belies his warning. "See you gentlemen in the morning." He takes off toward the hotel lobby.

**Chapter 7.**

"Hey there—calling it a night already?"

Ron stops and turns around by the elevator banks. "Excuse me?" he spots the woman he thinks matches the voice he just heard. She's beautiful—that, he can't deny—and clearly speaking _to_ him. Like they know each other. Or should.

"The night is still young," she laughs.

Ron stares at her blankly.

"It's only 10 o'clock," the woman says slowly, as if speaking to a foreigner.

Ron finally smiles. "Right. True."

"Sorry. But back there—I made a bet with my friends that I could snag the most serious-looking guy at the table. And that's _you_," she teases him, flipping her long brown hair out around her shoulders. _And_ she knows she's beautiful.

"Just how drunk _are_ you?" Ron raises an eyebrow in amusement.

"Not very. Just enough to get up the courage to follow you out here," she closes the gap between them.

"I'm definitely not the most serious guy of _that_ group," Ron laughs, ignoring the invitation in her voice.

"But you _are_ the cutest."

He smiles regretfully. "Sorry. It's been a long day, and it _is_ actually pretty late. And I'm headed home tomorrow." And I'm married. He doesn't say that part out loud.

"Well then, seems like the best time for company, no?"

Ron moves to protest and then—then he doesn't. He doesn't know what stops him. He knows he should tell this woman he's married. He knows he should say goodnight and get on that elevator and go to sleep. He _loves_ Hermione. He's fucking exhausted. And drunk. And not in the right frame of mind. He knows all of this. But she's bloody gorgeous. And she wants him. And he's horny as hell. And so fucking tired of saying no. Is it so wrong to have some fun?

He already knows the answer to that question. But it's not like I'm going to _shag_ her—I'd just . . . would a little flirting be so bad? _Maybe_ another drink?

"What is it that'd interest you?" Ron finally asks.

She smiles at him. Invitation accepted.

**Chapter 8.**

Holy fuck, Ron groans inwardly as he rolls over and opens his eyes. The clock on the side of the bed says 6 a.m. But it doesn't look like his clock. And he's not even sure this is his hotel. He feels like a Death Eater hit him with the Cruciatus curse seventeen times while he'd slept. If you can call this alcohol-induced coma _sleep_—and there it is—shit. Bloody shit.

He sees her now and it all comes back to him. Well, enough of it anyway. The Cruciatus curse would have been preferable, then. She's lying next to him, her face turned toward him angelically; silky brown hair spread out on a white pillow. Sleeping peacefully. And she's naked. Very naked.

Fuck, Ron curses inwardly again. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking hell. He gingerly climbs out of bed—and what do you know, I'm naked, too; fantastic—and gropes blindly for his things, which he finds scattered wildly around the room. Boxer briefs on the floor next to the bed, a shirt—his, he thinks—thrown over an armchair, and a sweater even further afield. Where the fuck are my pants?, he groans again as he feels the weight of a thousand hammers hit him all at once. Ron stumbles over his pants on his way to the bathroom—definitely _not_ his bathroom—and closes the door quietly, picking up his pants on the way in.

When he flips on the light the face staring back at him is . . . not his finest. Bloodshot eyes, messy hair, and—fuck, fuck, fuck. She's a Muggle, yeah? Did he use one of those fucking rubber things? Fuck.

He stumbles into his clothing, desperately ignoring both the pounding in his head and the sloshing in his stomach, wondering if he can just apparate right the fuck out of this room and back into his own without his Muggle—ahem—companion noticing. Exactly what they teach you in auror training, Ron smiles ruefully. How not to draw attention to yourself 101. He winces. It fucking hurts to smile.

He splashes some water on his face—not helpful—and slips out of the bathroom, hoping to tiptoe out of the hotel room without waking the girl (what the fuck was her name again?) Muggle-style. How do Muggles actually _do_ this?, he wonders incredulously. He feels for his wand, tucked in a secret pocket of his pants (still there, thank Merlin) and his Muggle wallet, tucked in a non-secret pocket of his pants (also still there, thank Christ).

Ron stops suddenly when he reaches the door. Fuck. He can't leave without knowing whether they used protection. He can't do that to Hermione. Although considering Hermione's feelings at this point seems a bit too little, too late. Nevertheless, Ron moves back toward the bed where the woman is still sound asleep. How can she sleep so bloody soundly with a stranger in her bed? I could be an axe murderer for all she knows.

Ron sits down on the edge of the bed gently, and softly nudges the woman, whose name he really bloody wishes he could remember. When she opens her eyes, she smiles up at him.

"Hi," the beautiful woman from last night whispers.

"Hi," he forces himself to smile back. "Listen, I have to go. That was—that was great. But I need to. . . ." he trails off awkwardly.

She laughs and runs a lazy finger down his now-wrinkled shirt, stopping playfully at the hem of his jeans. "Come on, I've had one night stands before. No biggie, okay?"

"Right," Ron forces another smile. "No biggie," he repeats her phrase and mentally files that one away for later use. "It's just—we, um—I was pretty drunk, and I'm—did we use . . . something when we . . . .?"

The woman looks momentarily confused, and then a look of understanding flashes across her face. "Of course," she says quickly. "Condom," she points to an empty wrapper on her nightstand. "And I'm on the pill."

Ron breathes a sigh of relief. "Thanks. Great, then. Alright. I should—I have to go. It was great meeting you, um . . . ."

"Cara. It was great meeting you, _Cara_," she smiles at him.

"Cara, right."

**Chapter 9.**

"He can't keep running forever," Mitchell Cranford muses thoughtfully as Ron debriefs him back at the Ministry later that morning.

"Well, he _can_, actually," Ron replies in a somewhat clipped tone. His head is still pounding, stomach still lurching, and the guilt he feels is overwhelming his capacity to think clearly right now.

Kingsley Shacklebolt casts a warning glance in his direction. Ron reads him immediately: Cranford's still the department head until he retires in a few months, and he's due respect; Ron hasn't replaced him. Not yet anyway—even if he _is_ growing more impatient to do so by the minute.

Ron manages to look appropriately chagrined and clears his throat. "Look, Mitch, we need three teams out there on 24/7 rotation. Now until . . . well, now until we bring him in. Constant surveillance. Confirmed spots, unconfirmed spots, likely spots. The guy is going to trip off his doorstep one day. He has a favorite pub. A favorite market. A favorite fucking whorehouse. Even wizards have to come out of the shadows at some point."

"You didn't," Kingsley points out, a twinkle in his eye.

Ron glances at Harry Potter—his best friend in the world and now-senior advisor to the Minister of Magic—and then back at the Minister. "We had a ringer," he grins. "Unless you're telling me that Carrow is traveling with Hermione Granger—and I'm pretty sure that's not possible—there's no way he eludes interaction the way we did."

Harry and Kingsley laugh; even Cranford gives a grudging chuckle.

"Three teams, round-the-clock surveillance," Cranford nods. "Fine. Set them up. Will you want to be running the operation on the ground?"

Ron hesitates, glancing again at Harry before responding to Cranford. "I can't, boss. I'm sorry. I've gotta get home. I may not have a wife anymore if I go back out there now. Then she may _really_ take off with Carrow," he grins.

Harry smirks knowingly, while Kingsley smiles sympathetically. "We need you back here anyway—there's been some other," he pauses, glancing at Harry, "activity. Worrisome activity. We've gathered some intel; Harry's sending it your way. Have your people take a look."

Ron frowns. "Anything we should discuss now?"

"Probably not if you plan on making it home today," Kingsley smiles. "And we have some time. Well, actually, _I_ don't," he glances at his watch. He nods to Harry, who rises immediately.

"And welcome home, Ronald," Kingsley grips Ron's shoulder warmly before heading for the door of Cranford's office, Harry following in his wake. Before following his boss out the door, Harry looks behind him and grins at his best friend.

"Good luck," he mouths and winks before exiting.

**Chapter 10.**

When Ron opens the door to his house later that day, he isn't quite sure what to expect. He sent a message to Hermione as soon as he returned, letting her know that he was checking in at the Ministry and headed home from there as quickly as possible. She promised to be home early. But probably not 3 o'clock early.

Ron dumps his rucksack on the floor of the living room and heads straight upstairs for their bedroom. He strips off his clothing and hops into the shower. Again. For the second time in nine hours. As if showering is going to wash away the incredible guilt he feels about what he was doing last night while Hermione sat at home waiting for him. Like she always does.

When he hears Hermione come in he's freshly showered and changed, laundry washed, and dinner (takeout curry, but it's the thought that counts) on the table. He holds his breath when he sees her, not sure whether they're going to pick up right where they left off almost a week ago, or whether his absence has made her heart grow fonder, in Muggle-speak. But he's pretty sure it's the latter when she throws her arms around him tightly without a word.

He immediately pulls her close to him and buries his face in her hair, breathing in her familiar scent. "I missed you," he murmurs.

"I missed you, too," she continues to hold him tightly against her. "I'm so glad you're okay. I kept thinking—what if something happened to you on this trip and the last words I ever said to you were those horrible things and I just—" her voice breaks as she buries herself further into his chest, clinging to him. "I'm just so glad you're okay."

"I'm okay," he murmurs, "I'm okay. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you so much. The things I said—"

"I'm sorry, too," Hermione whispers, her voice breaking again. "I love _you_ so, so much." She weeps into him.

He holds her tightly for several minutes, rubbing her back and murmuring into her ear until her muffled crying stops and she finally relaxes against him.

When she pulls away her face is tear-stained and blotchy. But she's still beautiful. His Hermione. He brushes a stray hair out of her face and kisses her softly on the mouth. If it's possible, he hates himself even more right now for what happened last night, and he's not sure how he could possibly tell her in this moment, as he'd originally planned. Not after this tearful reunion. Not when she's so bloody happy to see him.

Hermione smiles at him, almost shyly. God, how long has he loved this girl?

He swallows the hard lump that's formed in his throat. "I made dinner," he says.

"Oh? And are you _staying_ for dinner?" she asks, but he can see that she's teasing him, and her eyes are twinkling.

"For half, at least. I'll just have to keep my eye out for the Bat signal," he grins at her.

"I'm so glad you're home," she whispers again, pulling him close to her, as if she lets him go, he'll disappear on another week-long mission to god knows where.

"I'm not going anywhere, 'Mine," Ron assures her, pulling away and tipping her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. "Really."

She smiles again. "I, um—I have some news."

"Yeah?" Ron raises an eyebrow. "Come on," he nods his head toward the dining room. "Let's go eat and you can tell me all about it."

Ron takes her hand into his, and she holds it tightly as she follows him into the dining room. He pulls out her chair and she slides into it. "I could get used to this," she laughs as he pushes the chair back in for her, and she looks around at her wine glass and her full dinner plate.

"Might be a bit cold now," Ron says self-consciously as he takes his own seat across from her.

"I _love_ cold curry," Hermione insists, picking up a fork and popping a piece of shrimp into her mouth. "And I love you, Ron," she adds softly.

"I know," Ron gives her a lopsided grin. "I love you, too, baby," he picks up a glass of water and takes a sip.

Hermione looks questioningly at his choice of beverage.

"I may have, um, overdone it last night," Ron grins sheepishly. "So, tell me. What's the news?"

Hermione blushes. "It's—it's big news."

Ron stares at her expectantly, glass still raised mid-air.

"We're having a baby," Hermione says, almost shyly. As if they haven't been shagging for bloody eons.

"What?" Ron almost drops his glass, but he manages to steady his hand and place it down on the table in one piece. "But—but—how?"

"The usual way," Hermione laughs.

"I don't—but, I mean, when I left. . . ."

"I _know_," Hermione exclaims happily. "That's the ridiculous thing. There we were fighting over it—and I was already . . . I just didn't—we just didn't _know_!"

"Wow," Ron whispers. "That's—that's amazing," he smiles. And it's a genuine smile—but there's also something slightly unrecognizable in his expression. Fear? Guilt? Surprise? He gets up and goes back to Hermione. She gets up, too, waiting for him. He doesn't disappoint her—he pulls her back into his arms and holds her tightly.

"A baby," he whispers again when he finally lets her go. He looks down at her stomach and puts his hand on it gently. Like he can't quite believe it.

"A baby," Hermione whispers back. "It's in there. Right now."

Ron shakes his head. "I don't even—I don't know what to say. I'm—I'm overwhelmed."

"You spend your days in life or death situations and _this_ is overwhelming?" Hermione looks amused. "I mean, were you or were you not just chasing Death Eaters out there?" she gestures toward the darkness outside.

Ron grins sheepishly. "I'm—I just can't—I mean if I could go back right now and tell the 15-year-old me that one day I'm going to knock up Hermione Granger, I think he'd be pretty impressed."

Hermione smacks him playfully. "And there's the Ron Weasley I know and love," she teases.

"Holy shit, 'Mine—it's all so . . . I mean I know we've been planning it, and talking about it—"

"And practicing it—"

"—but it's so bloody crazy that it's _actually_ happening. For real. You're pregnant. We're going to have a baby."

"Yes."

"How—how far, d'you know?"

"Well, I've been feeling nauseous and I'd missed my cycle and I just—it hit me—and I did one of those Muggle tests three days ago. You know, you pee on a stick, and it just tells you. And it did."

"Why didn't you send me a message?" Ron asks incredulously. "I mean, _three days_ and I had no idea that you were—that we were. . . ." he trails off. Three days. Two days before he fucked another woman. Bloody lovely. This information would have come in handy then.

"Ron, it's almost impossible to get through to you when you're on these ops things—no one knows where you are and you're not allowed owls and sending you an emergency communication through the Ministry's encrypted channels seemed crazy, particularly since I wanted my husband to hear I'm pregnant _before_ the Ministry's security detail. . . ."

As always, Hermione is eminently rational, but bloody fuck—he just cheated on his _pregnant_ wife, and what kind of a shitbag does that? He's the worst fucking human being on the planet Earth. And _he's_ going to be a father? A shit start all around, Ron thinks to himself.

But I'm going to be a _father_! She's _pregnant._ We're having a baby. And this amazing life that I totally do not deserve—it's actually _mine._ His heart feels so fucking full . . . . And now I'll tell her that I slept with someone else and it'll be over. Ron swallows again, his heart plummeting.

Hermione mistakes Ron's silence for shock, and she throws her arms around him again, pulling him close.

"You're going to be an amazing father, Ron," she murmurs.

"Do you think?" Ron asks quietly. He's still lost in his own mixed-up, jumbled thoughts, raw joy battling fear and guilt, the latter emotions punching far above their weight class.

"I know it," Hermione pulls away and locks eyes with him. "You are loyal"—Ron blanches at that one—"and kind and hilarious and silly. And you have the biggest heart of anyone I know. This kid—she has no idea how lucky she is."

"_She_?" Ron asks.

"Well, a girl can hope," Hermione grins.

Ron laughs. "You are something else, Hermione."

"Can we go celebrate now?" Hermione stands on her tiptoes and whispers into his ear.

"What did you have in mind?" Ron murmurs.

"Let's practice making another baby," Hermione murmurs back before leading him upstairs by the hand.

**Chapter 11.**

"Think fast," Ron jokingly pretends to throw a disposable cup full of piping hot tea toward Harry as he strides into Harry's office the next morning.

"Morning," Harry turns around, shaking his head with a grin. He gratefully accepts the tea from Ron. "Thanks," he raises the cup at Ron in salute.

"So, all hail the conquering hero, eh?" Harry takes a sip and sits down behind his desk, crossing one leg over his other knee and looking up at Ron.

"'Conquering' implies having captured something or _someone_," Ron flops down into a chair across from Harry's desk and takes a sip from his own cup. "Ouch, this is bloody hot."

"Stop going to Costa. You always complain."

"Because they're bloody trying to kill me."

Harry grins and shakes his head. "Serves you right for buying your tea from Muggles. Welcome home."

"Thanks. Glad to be back. Although I'd have preferred it to be with Carrow, draped over my shoulder like the animal he is," Ron's voice drips with scorn.

"You'll get him next time."

Ron raises an eyebrow. "And will there be a next time for me?"

"I thought you'd be thrilled to get the desk job. Or at least one that occasionally requires you to _have_ a desk."

"I have a great desk."

"One that you use—for something other than stacking testers that George sends," Harry adds.

Ron grins. "Your son loves those testers. And there's a chocolate sneakoscope sitting on my desk right now waiting for him."

Harry raises an eyebrow.

"Fine, fine. Whatever. I'm thrilled."

"Ron, you _do_ understand you're about to be named the youngest head of the Auror Department in the history of the Ministry?" Harry looks perplexed, as if they're reviewing their OWL scores and Ron doesn't comprehend them.

"I do. I'm happy," Ron insists. "I swear. It's just—think of all the paperwork I'm going to have to deal with. I may as well be promoted into _your_ bloody job," he grins.

Harry shakes his head. "You're an idiot."

"Been talking to 'Mione, then?" Ron laughs.

Harry smiles, then sighs. "Actually, I have," he says hesitantly. "Everything okay?" He looks concerned.

Ron's grin fades. "What did she say?" he sighs.

"She was—um—pretty upset when you left. . . ."

"Right," Ron replies morosely. "We had a row. I was a bit of an arse." He shifts uncomfortably.

Harry doesn't reply.

"That reminds me," Ron gets up from the chair. "She wants me to invite you over to dinner tonight—I mean, if you're free. 'Round about 6, preferably before James' witching hour," he grins.

The change of subject doesn't go unnoticed. "Okay," Harry stares at Ron. "So. Things are fine now?"

"Things are fine, Harry," Ron toys with the lid of his cup. "So you'll come?"

"Of course—I'll check with Gin, but I'm sure we can be there. And James misses his favorite uncle."

"Great, can't wait to see my little guy," Ron grins before heading toward the door. "Anyway, gotta run—the paperwork phase of my career starts now," he raises his hand in mock salute before taking off down the hall.

**Chapter 12.**

"That was delicious, 'Mione," Ginny Potter enthuses as she pushes her plate away. "Mum would be impressed." She glances over to where James sits on the floor banging pots together. "Even James had a few bites. Consider that high praise," she laughs.

Hermione beams. "Thanks, I'm so glad," she looks from Ginny to Harry to James and back to Ginny, before nervously clearing her throat. "So," she glances sideways at Ron, "We—Ron and I have some news to share."

Ginny and Harry look at Hermione curiously, expectantly.

"We're—um—I mean, that is to say—James is getting a little cousin. Ron and I are—"

Ginny is shrieking and out of her chair before Hermione can even complete her sentence. "I knew it! I knew it! Since when do you skip wine at dinner? And you were positively glowing when you opened the door. Your complexion is bloody _glorious_," Ginny bubbles as she throws her arms around her best friend and squeezes her tightly.

"Wow," Harry is quieter in his enthusiasm. He smiles across the table at Ron, who remains seated next to his wife as the women hug each other and chatter away. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. How's _my_ complexion?"

"Pale as ever, mate."

"Nice," Ron laughs.

"Merlin. You . . . and a baby," Harry says in wonder as Ginny and Hermione quiet down and return to their seats, Ginny scooping up James on her way.

"Yeah," Ron grins, watching his sister tickle James as he laughs uproariously. "I mean, who would've ever believed it?"

Ginny rolls her eyes at her brother. "_Everyone_, Ron. Literally _anyone_ who's ever met you and Hermione would've believed it."

Ron looks sheepish. Hermione laughs and pokes him affectionately. "He's still getting used to the idea."

"How long have you guys known?"

"I just took the test a few days ago," Hermione's voice is filled with excitement. "It's all quite new. And Ron—poor Ron—I pretty much attacked him with it when he got home yesterday."

"Well, Ron _is_ easily flummoxed," Ginny raises an amused eyebrow at her brother.

Ron scowls at her.

"It's great news," Harry laughs. "We're so happy for you. And James—he's going to absolutely love his new cousin to death."

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione smiles at him warmly as she rises to start gathering dishes.

"I'll do that, babe," Ron immediately jumps up and takes the plates from Hermione's hands. He gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You and Gin go. We'll clean up."

"Thanks," Hermione touches his arm. She turns away, glowing as she scurries out of the dining room with Ginny and James, chattering away about baby names and nurseries and Muggle birth traditions.

Harry silently gathers up the rest of the dishes and follows Ron into the kitchen. "Big news," he says evenly.

"Yeah," Ron scrapes the dinner plates off into the trashcan and dumps them into the sink. He pulls his wand out from his back pocket. "Aguamente," he waves his wand toward the dishes, and they start to wash themselves with soap and water.

"James will be thrilled to have a little cousin to boss around."

Ron laughs. "Yeah, I remember something about what it feels like to be the little brother."

Harry pulls out a kitchen chair and sits down, quietly watching Ron tidy up for a few minutes. Finally, he breaks the silence. "You want to talk?"

"'Bout what?" Ron mutters, focused on drying the now-sparkling dishes.

"About what's bothering you."

Ron stops drying and stares at Harry. He doesn't reply.

"Come on, Ron. You're forgetting I've known you for practically your whole life."

Ron smiles weakly and puts the plates away. He pushes the hair out of his eyes and leans back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. "I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"Okay," Harry nods slowly. "Well, here's what I see. You're married to the woman you've loved for-bloody-_ever_—and you guys are having a baby. And you're about to get the promotion of a lifetime. The Ron _I_ know would be pretty sodding happy about all that. You have a pretty bloody incredible life, mate."

"I _am_ happy, Harry," Ron mutters.

"Really?"

"Really. I'm just—it's a lot to take in, you know? Like 'Mione said, I just found out last night."

"But you've been trying for months," Harry narrows his eyes.

Ron stares blankly at Harry.

"Hermione may have mentioned it." It's Harry's turn to mutter. "Look, I can't help it that she's more _communicative_ than you."

Ron shakes his head and goes back to putting plates away in the cabinet.

"Ron. . . ."

"I don't want to talk about our bloody sex life, Harry."

"I'm not asking—"

"Then what are you asking?" Ron snaps. "Sorry," he says immediately, throwing down a dish towel and looking back at Harry. "I'm just—I'm under a lot of pressure right now."

"I know," Harry says slowly. "I know. You've been logging insane hours. We haven't got Carrow. You've been away from Hermione for too long. She's pissed off. You've been fighting. We miss you. You feel guilty. It's bollocks. I get that. But . . . is that it?"

"That's a lot, mate."

Harry stares at Ron silently, refusing to relent.

Finally, Ron sinks into a chair next to Harry and puts his head in his hands. "I shagged someone," he mutters.

"What?"

Ron looks up at Harry miserably. "I shagged someone," he repeats quietly.

"Are you serious?"

Ron nods morosely. "Yes."

"She's _pregnant_," Harry hisses.

"I didn't _know_ that at the time," Ron hisses back.

"Is this—are you—is this something you _do_ now?" Harry asks. Hesitantly, like he's not quite sure he wants to know the answer.

"I _do_? Like _regularly_? You think I just go around fucking other women?" Ron looks incredulous.

"I don't know, Ron—you tell me."

"No! Of course not. It just—it happened—just the once."

"When?"

"Two nights ago."

Harry sighs. "Shit."

"Right."

"Did you—I mean, 'Mione. She doesn't know?"

"No."

"Do you love her? I mean—still?" Harry asks gently.

"Of _course_ I still bloody love her. What the fuck kind of question is that?"

"I don't know. The kind of question one thinks of when told that you just"—his voice drops to a whisper—"shagged somebody else."

"It was a fucking mistake, obviously," Ron mutters angrily. "I'm just—we've been fighting so much lately. And she's been bloody _obsessed_ with this baby thing. And—"

"You told her that her career was worthless?" offers Harry.

"I did _not_," Ron glares at him.

"She was crying in my arms the night you left. When you asked me to check in on her. I felt like we were back at Hogwarts and you were snogging Lavender Brown in front of her."

Ron's expression softens. He looks miserable. "I told her—oh, fuck it, I don't remember what I told her. But I didn't mean it. I was angry. And hurt. And—just—I don't know, Harry. Believe me when I tell you that she—she and this baby—mean everything to me."

"So . . . what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Ron shakes his head miserably. "I was going to tell her. I feel so fucking guilty every bloody second of the day. But now . . . how can I?"

"Don't," Harry says quickly.

"Don't."

"Don't tell her."

"You don't think—"

"I don't. It can only hurt her. She's—she's been through enough. With you being gone so often and her feeling like she's . . . she feels like you've left her behind—"

"That's bloody crazy, Harry; I've spent my whole life making myself better for _her_. For _us_. So that we could start this family together and she wouldn't have to worry about anything, and our kids wouldn't have hand-me-downs and—fuck—I just. . . ." He trails off. "Nothing I ever do is right," he mumbles.

"She doesn't think that, Ron. And neither do I," Harry says loyally. "You're brave and kind and good. She's lucky to have you, you know."

"I just fucked around on my pregnant wife," Ron raises an eyebrow. "I'm not sure 'lucky' is an apt characterization."

"That's why you can't tell her," Harry insists. "You _know_ her. She's—she's—look—you're just—if she never knows, it will never hurt her. If you tell her . . . she's fragile. She's hormonal. Did you see her with Gin and James just now? She's bloody glowing. And things are finally calming down. You're about to be promoted—"

"—to a bloody desk jockey—"

"—to head of the bloody Auror Department, and you're having this baby and this is everything she wants. Everything _you_ want. So don't fucking rock the boat. It'll make _you_ feel better to confess, but it won't do anything but _hurt_ her."

Ron is silent for a minute as he considers this. "Is that what you'd do?" He asks pointedly.

"For Merlin's sake, Ron, she's your sister. . . ."

"And I'm asking you anyway."

Harry pauses. "Yes. That's what I'd do."

Finally, Ron nods. "I feel like a bloody arsehole for lying to her. I've never lied to her before."

"You're—you're not lying exactly. You're just not disclosing. Think of all the years you fought with her about Viktor because you were in love with her, and even though she knew it and you knew it and the entire student population of Hogwarts knew it, you _still_ refused to acknowledge it," Harry grins. "You weren't lying, _per se_. Think of it like that."

Ron rolls his eyes but he can't help but smile, too. "You're an idiot."

"I didn't cheat on _my_ wife," Harry grins.

"Fuck off, mate."

Harry's expression grows serious. "You'll be okay, Ron. This'll pass, you know? You love her, she's happy, you're home. Just let it be, yeah?"

Ron nods. "Right. Just let it be," he murmurs.

**Chapter 13.**

"Doesn't this color look . . . off to you?" Ron cocks his head sideways and stares at the wall from his position behind Hermione, his arms wrapped loosely around her growing belly.

"No, it's perfect," Hermione insists. "Gender neutral. So it doesn't matter if we have a boy or a girl."

"But we _know_ she's a girl."

"So—you want her to be raised in a patriarchal society where girl wizards are treated one way and boy wizards are treated another? It all starts with room color, Ron," Hermione pulls out of Ron's arms and turns around to glare at him.

"No, I definitely wouldn't want that," Ron's eyes twinkle in amusement.

"So yellow it is," Hermione says firmly.

"Yellow it is," Ron agrees quickly.

"And another thing—your mum is sending me knitted bunnies. We can't have knitted bunnies in this room."

"Definitely not," Ron deadpans.

"So you'll talk to her."

"Yes."

"Good then."

"Maybe instead we can decorate with some of those 'equal rights for elves and Muggles' posters—you have some of those in your office, yeah?" Ron grins.

Hermione rolls her eyes but can't help smiling. "I'm not _that_ terrible."

"No, of course not."

"Besides, I think one day she'll be very proud to have a mum who works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to further the rights of _everyone_—equally."

"She _will_ be proud of you, 'Moine," Ron says earnestly. "And so am I."

"Really?" Hermione smiles up at him.

"Really, really," Ron replies. "Taking on a new position? Leaving the public defender's office to work for the _enemy_?" he teases, recalling her many tirades against the Ministry's unfair treatment of non-wizards.

"Well, Neville says you have more power to change things from the inside than from the outside," Hermione says, absently resting her hands on her belly. "You can only bang on the doors for so long. And besides, what's that someone said about putting my 2,000 NEWTs to some real use?" she arches an eyebrow.

"I don't know anyone that could've made such a stupid and ignorant comment," Ron grins, taking her hands into his own and looking at her with pure affection. "Anyway, Neville's right. You're amazing. And you'll be amazing with this little girl," he puts his hand on her stomach.

Hermione sighs. "Sometimes I don't feel so amazing. Like right now. With so much work—and so much to do here. . . ."

"It'll be fine. It'll all be fine. How about we eat?" Ron suggests.

"Do you ever think about anything else?"

Ron raises an eyebrow.

Hermione chuckles. "Okay, anything other than that?"

"You have to eat. And there's really almost nothing left to be done in this very yellow nursery."

She pokes him. "We don't have a crib and we haven't folded all the clothes and your mum just sent me—"

"—'Mine, come on," Ron pulls her close to him with a grin. "You're getting kind of . . ."—he pauses, wondering what adjective he can use that comes closest to 'crazy' without getting him into trouble—"stressed," he finishes. 'Stressed' is good. Non-judgmental, he thinks.

Hermione narrows her eyes and looks up at Ron, considering his point. "Hmm," she finally leans her head into his strong chest and takes a deep breath. "Maybe you're right."

"I'm sorry," Ron looks momentarily confused. "What's that? I don't—I don't even recognize that word you just used." He grins.

"Don't push your luck, Weasley," Hermione's voice is muffled against his chest, but he can feel her smiling.

He kisses the top of her head. "So let's go eat, yeah?"

"Yeah," Hermione agrees, pulling away from him. She looks up at him. "Hey—I love you."

"I love you," Ron smiles at her, and in this moment, he thinks life _is_ pretty bloody perfect.

**Chapter 14.**

"Oh, come on, Ron—no!" Hermione is practically in tears when a Ministry owl dumps a letter on their kitchen table calling Ron in for yet another last-minute mission.

"Hermione, it's the last one—I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You can. You absolutely _can_."

"Babe, I'm sorry," Ron pleads with her as he reaches for his overnight bag—still always at the ready, much to Hermione's annoyance. "It's—it's Carrow. We've got him. I can't let my guys go without me. Not after all this time."

"And if something happens to you? I'm seven months pregnant, Ron."

"I haven't forgotten that," he replies quietly, putting down the bag. "And nothing's going to happen to me, 'Mione. I swear I'll be okay. I'm—I take over the department next week and I'm done—_this_ is done—but I need to do this, 'Mine. _Please_," he's practically begging her now.

She shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't want you to do this. I just—why can't you just be happy here?"

Ron looks perplexed. "I _am_ happy here. But this is—I've been chasing this guy for _ten years_, 'Mine. This is it."

"And what if it's not?"

"Then I'll let my new, very capable deputy finish the job," Ron tries to keep his voice calm.

"Do it now. Let him do it now. You have a family."

"I have an obligation."

"To _me_! To _her_! You have an _obligation_ to us!" Hermione practically spits out the words as she puts a hand on her stomach.

Ron reaches for her hand; Hermione snatches it away. "Don't. Don't touch me and think you're going to make this better. Not now. Not again. I've been very patient with you—_very_ patient—you've been in and out of this bloody house—of this bloody _marriage_—for years. You _promised_ me—"

"Hermione, I'm trying to—"

"What is it out there that you can't stay away from?" Hermione's voice breaks and the tears start flowing. "I don't understand—why am I not enough? Why is this not enough?"

"You _are_; this _is_! It's not about that—it's about finishing what I started. I made a promise, 'Mione. I can't just walk away when it gets hard—I did that once and I think you'll agree it was the biggest bloody mistake of my life."

"It's not the same," Hermione says quietly.

"It _is_ the same. This guy tortured our _friends_—he _killed_ people. Lots of people. And I'm going to bring him to justice. That's my _job_."

"I'm _asking_ you, Ron. I'm asking you to stay with me."

"I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise," Ron reaches for her hand again and sighs when she pulls away.

"Don't you love me?" she whispers.

"More than anything."

"But not enough to stay."

"Don't, Hermione. Don't make this a bloody referendum on my love for you."

"Maybe you need someone that is okay with this lifestyle—maybe you need someone else." Hermione seems borderline hysterical at this point; she's not making any bloody sense.

And he doesn't have time for this. He knows that his team is waiting for him and every second matters. But he can't just walk out the door. He can't leave her like this.

"Listen to me," Ron grabs her wrists and forces her to look at him. "I know you're scared. I know you're angry. I know—"

"Are you seeing someone?" Hermione asks suddenly.

"What?" Ron drops her wrists in surprise.

"_Are_ you?"

"Are you joking?"

"You're never here. You love leaving on these bloody trips to god knows where—where, conveniently, I can't reach you and have no bloody idea where you are, and you don't ever check in—"

"_Conveniently_ I don't check in?" Ron is flabbergasted. "Hermione, you're off the bloody deep end—"

"Are you?" Hermione demands again. "Are you shagging someone?"

Ron stares at her, and in an instant he sees that she sees—that momentary glimmer of guilt that passes so quickly—but she knows him too well; she sees him too clearly; she's wondered; and now—now she knows.

"No," he stammers. "Absolutely not."

"Oh my god," she says suddenly, quietly. "Oh my god."

"'Mione," Ron steps toward her.

"You . . . are."

"I'm not."

"Don't fucking lie to me, Ronald Weasley."

"I did. Once. Months ago. Once. Never before. Never again. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"When?" Hermione's voice is cold.

"We'd had that fight. About having a baby. I came back—you told me you were. . . ."

"Oh my god," Hermione whispers. "I knew you were—I knew something was wrong when you came back." Tears stream down her face.

"'Mione—" he reaches for her.

"Don't touch me!" she screams. "Don't you fucking touch me!"

Ron drops to his knees in front of her. "Please. Baby, I'm so sorry. I love you so much. I didn't—you're my whole world. You and this little girl. _Please._" Tears well up in his eyes. "Please," he begs again.

"Get up," Hermione says coldly. "And go. Go on your fucking _mission,_" she spits out the word. "Go save the wizarding world. Again."

"Hermione—"

"_Go_!" she screams. "Get off your _fucking knees_. And go."

Ron stumbles to his feet blindly, wiping tears from his eyes. "Please, 'Mione," he reaches for her desperately as his voice breaks. "I love you so much."

"Did you love me so much while you fucked someone else?"

Ron blanches at the bitterness in her voice. "I—it was the biggest mistake I ever made."

"I thought leaving me and Harry in the forest to fight Voldemort alone was the biggest mistake you ever made. Which is it, Ron?" Hermione asks, ice dripping from her voice.

"Both," Ron stammers. "Both. 'Mione—you are _everything_ to me—please believe me."

"Why should I? You've been lying to me for _months_! Fucking _months_, Ronald."

"I wanted to tell you—when I got home I wanted—but you were—you told me—I couldn't—not when you told me you were pregnant."

"Oh, how bloody kind—you wanted to spare my fucking feelings."

"I wanted—I didn't want _this_," he stumbles over his own words. "I didn't want to hurt you—I just wanted—"

"Here's a rule of thumb, Ron—one you still haven't learned from our bloody Hogwarts days. If you love someone, you _don't bloody shag someone else_."

"It was one time, Hermione," Ron stammers. "I know it was wrong. But I—I—there's no excuse, I know. There's nothing—nothing I could say can change it. But I _love_ you." He stands there staring at her, tears running down his face, not sure what to do.

"You need to go," she says quietly. "Take your bag and go."

"Hermione. . . ." Ron reaches for her again.

"You couldn't wait to get out of here ten minutes ago. Just fucking go."

But Ron can't move. He's afraid that if he does—he doesn't even want to think about it.

Hermione backs away from him. "Ron," she says quietly, deliberately, slowly. "If you love me—and you say you do—you need to leave. Please."

Ron nods wordlessly. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and picks up his bag. He stares at her for another minute, suddenly completely unsure of whether he can walk the several steps required to reach their front door. His legs feel like they're made of lead.

"Go, Ron," Hermione says again.

Ron nods again, but he stands frozen into place.

Hermione sighs. She turns around and walks up the stairs to their bedroom. Ron hears the bedroom door shut quietly, and he hears her breaking into sobs behind the closed door. He can almost _feel_ his heart breaking in two as he slowly lets himself out of the house.

His perfect life.

**Chapter 15.**

"—and that would be the other spot."

Ron stares at the ground, suddenly aware—after a long pause—that no one is speaking.

"Boss?"

Ron looks up at Rogerson blankly.

"Um, did you have a preference?" Rogerson stammers.

"What?" Ron asks.

Rogerson and Bendix exchange looks. "What—what did you want to do, sir?"

"I didn't. . . ." Ron trails off, suddenly aware that a decision of some sort has to be made—by him, apparently—but he has no bloody clue what he's supposed to be deciding on. "I'm sorry. Can you repeat—whatever the . . . options were?"

"High & View was where he was spotted hours ago—but we've intel that he may be headed to the Garden Towers on Abingdon. It's pretty reliable, sir, but if we choose the wrong spot . . . . Where did you want us to station ourselves, sir?"

Ron stares at the ground. He's never felt so lost in his life. Well, maybe once before. But he doesn't have Dumbledore's bloody Deluminator—or Dumbledore's wisdom—to help him find his way back to Hermione anymore.

"I don't know," he mumbles. "I'm—I'm having some trouble focusing," he admits. "I just need some time."

"We don't really _have_ time, sir," Bendix says gently.

"Right," Ron replies. Goddamn it. Today of all days. How does she have so much power over him? How can she be fucking with his head when she's hundreds of miles away? Is she throwing his things out the window right now? Is he going to come home to an empty house? Does he even _have_ a home anymore?

"Sir?"

"Garden Tower," Ron mutters. "Let's go."

**Chapter 16.**

When they bring Carrow's body back to the Ministry four days later, Cranford is waiting for them with a smile on his face. "Job well done, boys," he nods approvingly. "Ron—congratulations. You did it. Last act as deputy, eh?"

Ron stares back at Cranford numbly. He forces himself to nod.

"Of course, you're all exhausted," Cranford mistakes Ron's numbness for sleep deprivation. "Go. This can be written up later. Ron," he looks back at him. "Kingsley's waiting for you in his office," he smiles.

Ron nods mechanically and shuffles off. When he arrives in front of the Minister's office, Shacklebolt's assistant ushers him in. Harry's in there, too, sporting a sympathetic smile. Harry and Kingsley are sitting at a large conference table, plainly waiting for Ron's arrival.

Ron mumbles hello and slides into a chair.

"Congratulations, Ron," Kingsley smiles at him with pride. "You did it."

"Only took a decade," Ron mutters. And my bloody marriage.

"He's dead," Shacklebolt replies. "That's thanks to you. That was no small feat, Weasley."

"Right," Ron sighs.

"Well, of course you'll want to get home and get some sleep. How much longer now?" Kingsley asks.

Ron stares blankly at the Minister.

"The baby?" Shacklebolt prods.

"Right," Ron looks at him in recognition. "She's—another seven weeks or so."

"Perfect timing, then."

Ron forces a smile. "Right."

"Alright. Go. We can't have our new Head of Aurors sleepwalking through the Ministry, can we?"

"No, sir," Ron mumbles as he rises. "Thank you, sir." He walks out of the office without a backward glance.

No sooner is he out of Shacklebolt's office does he hear Harry calling after him. He stops but doesn't turn around. He can't deal with Harry right now. He doesn't want a lecture from his best mate about what a selfish prat he is and how he fucked up the best thing he's ever had and how Hermione deserves so much better and—

"Ron!" Harry catches up to him and grabs his arm. "Are you okay?"

"No," Ron says simply, shaking off Harry's arm.

"Can we talk?"

"No. I have to find Hermione."

"Right," Harry swallows. "Right. It's just that 'Mione—"

"Don't," Ron says sharply. "Don't talk to me about my wife."

"You did something amazing out there," Harry says gently.

"I killed someone, Harry. That's not amazing."

"You're a hero. Everyone thinks you're a bloody hero."

"Not everyone."

Harry pauses. "You did the best you could. She's—she'll be okay. You'll be okay."

"I'm not sure I will be, but thanks."

"Ron, let me—let me help you—"

"You can't," Ron cuts him off. "I'm going now."

"Right," Harry says quietly. "Right. But I'm—I'm here for you. I hope you know that, mate."

Ron nods shortly and walks away.

**Chapter 17.**

When he opens the door to the house, he's not sure what he'll find. Hermione's not there. Of course she's not. She'll still be at the Ministry. It's midday. He stopped by her new office, but she wasn't in. Avoiding him, he assumes—he sent her a message that he was on his way back. May as well have given her a bloody escape hatch.

And, of course, although his wife is avoiding him, no one else will leave him alone. He's forced more smiles and polite 'thank yous' today than in the last several years of hunting Death Eaters combined.

He sent her another message—four of them, actually, but who's counting?—but she hasn't replied to a single one. He's not sure what he'd hoped for—that she'd run home and be waiting for him to . . . what? What exactly would they do? Make up? Have a laugh about the whole thing? "Ha ha, sorry I fucked someone else. I was feeling insecure. But it's okay—you're pregnant, I'm home, and have you heard I'm a bloody hero?"

Ron throws his bag on the floor in frustration. He kicks it. What now? What is he supposed to do? Fuck. He stops suddenly. Does Ginny know he cheated on Hermione? And if she does (very likely, given the conversation he just had with Harry), then does his mum know? Bloody hell. Sunday dinner at the Burrow should be quite low key then.

He paces around the first floor where everything appears to be in the same condition in which he left things. So . . . is that a good sign or a bad sign? Bedroom. He suddenly has an irresistible urge to check their bedroom. He bounds the steps two at a time and tears into their room. He spots it immediately. A suitcase sitting on the bench in front of their bed. Neatly packed. His.

"Fuck," Ron curses aloud. "Fuck." He sits down on his bed, completely and utterly exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Every single bloody part of him. He desperately wishes she were here right now. What is he supposed to do without her? Has she considered this? At all? One bloody screw up. Okay, maybe there has been more than _one_ during the course of their whole relationship—as bloody long as they've been together—but not like this. And he's not entitled to _one_ do-over? Even in Quidditch you get a fucking second chance before getting called out of the game on penalties. And don't any of the good things he's done balance out this one (admittedly) shitty judgment call? I mean, I put my dick inside of a Muggle—it's not like I killed her. Truthfully, though, he's not sure which act Hermione would find less offensive.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ron gets up and starts pacing the room. What is he supposed to do now? Wait for her to come and kick him out? Chase her down? Take the suitcase and go to the Burrow so his mum can hit him upside the head? As he's considering his options—all terrible, bloody awful—he hears her come in. He stops pacing immediately and stands frozen in the middle of their bedroom.

"Ron?" she calls from downstairs.

Well, at least she's still acknowledging my existence, Ron thinks as he forces himself down the stairs to meet her . . . icy glare. Yup, definitely not going to blow over.

"Hermione," he says meekly, wondering whether he should simply fall to his knees now and beg forgiveness. "I'm—I'm so happy to see you."

"You saw the suitcase?" she asks, barely looking at him. She's holding a newspaper in her hand.

"Yes."

"It's yours."

"I know. But baby—"

"Don't. Don't call me that."

"'Mine—Hermione," he corrects himself. "Please." Ron takes a step toward her.

She steps back and holds out her hand as if to ward him off.

"Can we talk about this?" Ron pleads.

"What is it that you have to say, Ron?" Hermione asks coldly.

"I—I have a lot to say. I'm—I'm so sorry for everything. I fucked up; I know I did. I wasn't in my right mind and—"

"So I should expect this regularly then?"

"No—no! It was horrible what I did. It was terrible. I hate that I've hurt you, and I'll do anything to make it up to you."

"Then you can take that suitcase and go to the Burrow."

"Hermione, I love you. You and this baby—" he gestures toward Hermione's ever-expanding belly—"You mean everything to me. Don't do this. Don't break up our family."

"_You_ broke up our family."

"Hermione, I made a _mistake_. I'll do anything to fix it. But I love you. And her."

"I need time."

"I'm her father."

"I know that," Hermione snaps.

"And I'm your husband. Please don't throw away everything we've built over this. _Please._"

"I don't trust you anymore."

"What can I do? I'll do anything."

"Will you see a therapist?"

"Yes."

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "Do you even know what a therapist _is_?"

"Yes."

"You have to discuss _feelings_ there, Ron—actually express _emotions_," her voice drips with contempt.

"Yeah, I get it, Hermione."

"And you want to do that?"

"If it means saving our marriage, then yes. Absolutely."

Hermione sighs. "I can't think with you here. I need you to go."

"I've been gone for almost a week."

"It's not long enough."

"'Mine, this is my home. _You're_ my home."

"Well, you fucked it up," Hermione snaps. "Why don't you go find another bed—you won't have any trouble given your_ celebrity_, I'm sure," she slams the newspaper into his chest, walking past him into the kitchen.

Ron lifts up the paper and sees an image of himself—smiling—on the front page of the Prophet. _Carrow Dead; New Head of Ministry's Auror Department Returns to Hero's Welcome_. He scowls and tosses the newspaper onto a table, following Hermione into the kitchen.

"Hermione, you have every right to be angry with me, but—"

"Thanks for your permission, Ron," Hermione says coldly as she switches on the tea kettle.

"—but I don't know what you want from me. If I had a spare time turner, believe me, I'd use it. Short of changing history, what can I do to make things right? I _love_ you. You know that. And you love me, even if you can't remember that right now. We're having a baby in a month. And she needs a father. So—what? What am I supposed to do?"

Hermione bursts into tears and slides into a kitchen chair. "I don't know," she mumbles, her head in her hands. "I don't know."

Ron rushes to her side and kneels next to her chair. "I'm so sorry, 'Mione—I never meant to hurt you. I never—I just—I love you so much. I'm sorry."

"I need _time_, Ron. I do. I need you to go."

Ron swallows hard and nods his head. "Okay," he says softly. "Okay. I'll go. But. . . ." he trails off. He doesn't know what else he's supposed to say. He doesn't know how to make things better. "I'll go."

He gets to his feet slowly and shuffles out of the kitchen. When he reappears downstairs with his suitcase, Hermione's eyes are dry, and she's waiting for him by the front door.

She nods at him and opens the door for him. He looks at her sadly. "I love you, Hermione," he says softly as he exits. Her only response is to shut the door behind him.

**Chapter 18.**

**Day One.**

Ron feels like a 15-year-old back at home. His pillows are uncomfortable; his old Chudley Cannons posters are still on the bloody walls; and his mum expects him to do chores around the house despite his full-time job leading the bloody Department of Aurors. Talk about comedowns. Definitely no hero's welcome at the Burrow.

His mum is sympathetic, for sure. After she hits him upside the head for being a complete prat ("A mother shouldn't have to tell her son to keep it in his pants, Ronald."). But she loves him and it's pretty clear she thinks (not that she says this out loud) that Hermione's throwing him out of the house seven weeks before their baby is due is not a well-thought-out plan. His mum does tell him that every couple has their issues and that, no matter how things look on the outside, you never know what's going on inside. And even she and dad have had times when things have been rocky.

"Really?" Ron asks curiously.

"With seven kids you think we never struggled?" Molly Weasley raises an eyebrow.

"I guess I never thought about it," Ron admits.

His mum sighs. "Well, there you are. One day your kids will be asking for your advice and you'll tell them the same thing. Couples can love each other, but still struggle. You and Hermione love each other. You'll be okay."

"How do you know that, mum?"

His mum pulls a book off the shelf and flips it open. It takes her a minute to find what she's looking for. "'This too shall pass.' It's an old Muggle expression," Molly looks at her son. "It's a book of poetry. Hermione gave me this after . . . after Fred," she says softly.

Ron swallows hard and looks down at his hands. People tell you time heals all wounds, but they're wrong. He still misses Fred every single day. And it's clear so does his mum.

"I didn't know," Ron says.

"Your wife is a pretty incredible witch," his mum replies.

"Yeah, she is."

"I know you'll be okay," she says again, in her mum way. She hugs him tightly. He believes her.

**Day Four.**

Ron checks in on Hermione at the Ministry and again at home that evening. This has become his daily routine, and their conversations have taken on a stilted tone, which Ron hopes isn't a harbinger of things to come. But it's the same every day:

Ron: "Are you okay?"

Hermione: "Yes."

Ron: "How are you feeling?"

Hermione: "Fine."

Ron: "How's the baby?"

Hermione: "She's fine."

Ron: "Do you need anything? Can I do anything?"

Hermione: "No, thank you."

He always says he loves her before he leaves. She never replies.

**Day Eight.**

On his way out Hermione tells him that she has a doctor's appointment the next day and he can come, if he wants to.

"Yes," Ron says immediately. "Of course I'll come."

"You don't have to be anywhere?" she raises an eyebrow. "Prague? Edinburgh? Washington?"

"I'll be there," Ron replies evenly.

She doesn't let him escort her to the appointment, so he meets her there. The doctor is kind and warm, and she lets Ron hear the heartbeat. "Mum and baby are doing great," she smiles at him.

"Great," Ron forces a smile in return.

"Once a week now," the doctor tells Hermione.

"Right, then," Hermione responds quietly. "See you next week."

**Day Fifteen.**

"See you at the doctor's tomorrow?" Hermione asks.

"Yeah," Ron replies. "Absolutely."

This week, she doesn't make any snide remarks about whether he'll be too busy chasing Death Eaters to Montreal or Capetown to hear his baby's heartbeat.

The doctor does a sonogram—"There she is, moving around; she can't wait to get out of here," the doctor laughs—and Ron wants to cry. He's not sure whether it's joy or sorrow. Probably a bit of both.

He's missed so fucking much. He doesn't want to miss anymore.

**Day Sixteen.**

"Hermione—you—you'd mentioned a therapist," he says sheepishly. "Have you thought any more about it?"

"No."

"Right, then," Ron nods. "I was just—I was thinking that maybe _I_ could do it. I could find someone to help us, schedule something. . . ." he trails off. He senses that she can hear the desperation in his voice.

She raises an eyebrow at him, but she doesn't look unsympathetic. In fact, she looks almost . . . touched by the gesture. He's probably imaging it.

**Day Seventeen.**

"Alright, then," Ron stands inside the foyer for his nightly check-in. "I guess I'll be—"

"Ron," Hermione says suddenly. She grabs his hand and puts it on her stomach. It's the first time she's let him touch her in weeks. He can feel the baby kicking and kicking. Hermione smiles widely. So does Ron.

"It's amazing," he murmurs, finally pulling his hand away.

"Yeah," she whispers. "She's this little person—she's almost here."

There's sadness in Ron's eyes. "Yeah."

There's a pause and then Hermione speaks again. "Who was she?" she asks quietly.

Ron's eyes widen. He immediately recognizes the 'she' Hermione's asking about. She hasn't asked him a single question about the—the incident—not since he left for that final hunt-and-kill mission.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. He figures honesty is probably the best policy at this point. It can't make things any worse, anyway. "Her name was—_is_—Cara, I think. I didn't even learn that much until the next—the next morning," he says quietly.

"How did it happen?"

Ron shifts his weight awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks down at the floor.  
"It was—it was our last night. We were all at the hotel pub, drinking. I'd had too much whiskey. Not the first time," he looks up at her and has the decency to look chagrined.

"There was a table of women looking at us. I mean not at me, just—at us. I got up to go, the other guys wanted to stay. I told them not to get into too much trouble," he smiles bitterly and pauses. "Right. I know."

Hermione doesn't reply.

He sighs and continues. "I headed out of the pub, back toward the elevators to go back to my room—and she was there. I mean, she just—she followed me out."

"She followed you out," Hermione repeats flatly.

"It seems mental, I know. But she did. And she started flirting with me. And I—I mean I knew in that moment that I should go. Go up to my room and sleep it off and come home. To you," he looks at her. "But . . . I don't know," he sighs again. "I didn't. I was frustrated by everything, angry with you—"

"With me."

"You—you were a bit . . . scary. With the baby thing. Sex on schedule and on particular nights and in particular positions and—when I wasn't there it was such a huge deal because we were trying to have a baby and . . . it was . . . . It was hard. Sometimes," he adds quickly.

Hermione bites her lip and looks at the ground.

"Not that it—it didn't—_you_ didn't make me to do anything."

She's silent.

"But sometimes," he hesitates. "Sometimes it just feels like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. My job, the travel—I didn't love it either, 'Mine, no matter what you thought—and then you and me and the baby stress. And me being drunk and stupid and generally reckless didn't help. But I don't have any excuses. I could have said no—I _should_ have said no—and I didn't. I went up to her hotel room . . . and I had sex with her."

Hermione flinches. Ron sees that hearing him say it out loud hurts. But it's out there now. Everything.

Ron swallows and continues speaking. "And then . . . the next morning—I woke up with the worst bloody hangover, and when I looked at her it was like my stomach dropped through the floor. I knew it was the biggest mistake I'd ever made and I couldn't fix it. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't remember her bloody name, and there I was lying in her bed. And it didn't help anything. It didn't change anything. It didn't make the job or us or _anything_ better. It was just . . . it was just there."

He can see Hermione struggling not to cry. She watches him and waits for him to continue.

"And when I got up to leave I couldn't even bloody remember if we'd used protection. I'm sorry," he looks at Hermione again. "And so I woke her up to ask. We did," he adds quietly. "She showed me the condom wrapper."

"She was a muggle?" Hermione asks quietly.

Ron nods.

"Why didn't you say anything? When you came home?"

Ron hangs his head miserably. "I don't know—god, I should have. I fucking wish I would have. But when I came in—you were so happy, and there you were in my arms, telling me we were having this baby and you loved me and you were sorry—and _I_ was sorry, and I loved you—_love_ you—so much and I didn't . . . I didn't know how to tell you that I fucked everything up. So I didn't."

Hermione swallows. "Why didn't you ever talk to me? About the baby thing?"

"You wanted it so badly. I didn't want to disappoint you."

Hermione wipes her eyes. "I didn't know."

"'Mine—I'm _thrilled_ that we're having this little girl. There's nothing I want more."

Hermione nods.

"There's one more thing," Ron adds hesitantly. "Harry knows. I mean, knew. He knew. I told him."

"I know," Hermione says softly.

"Oh."

"And he told you not to tell me. I know," she looks at him meaningfully.

Of course. Harry. Thinking he'd take the blame to save my marriage. Ron shakes his head. "It doesn't matter what he told me. It was my responsibility, my marriage—not his. And I fucked it up. I just . . . don't want to keep anything more from you. Not after all this."

Hermione nods.

"Okay, then," Ron takes a breath and opens the front door. "I guess I'll go."

Hermione nods again and holds the door for him. She doesn't say anything.

"I love you, Hermione," Ron says before leaving. She closes the door behind him. He can see her watching him through the window as he departs. For the first time in seventeen days.

**Day Eighteen**.

Tonight, she asks him if he wants tea. She hasn't invited him past the threshold since she kicked him out of the house almost three weeks ago, so he takes this as a good sign. He immediately accepts the invitation.

"The baby's been kicking a lot today," she says quietly as she hands him a cup.

"She's an active little monkey," Ron smiles. "Mum says I was, too—so let's hope you have an easier go of it."

Hermione chuckles and then her face grows more serious. "I'm scared."

"Me, too."

"Do you think we'll be good? Good parents, I mean?"

"If _Percy_ can do it, for Merlin's sake—"

"Ron."

"Yes," Ron says softly. "I think we'll be good parents." He reaches for her hand and then pulls back before he touches her, remembering himself. Hermione notices.

"You don't even know how to change a diaper," she smiles at him. It's a real smile.

"I'll learn."

**Day Nineteen.**

Tonight, he offers to make tea. "How are you feeling?" he asks as he sits across from her at the kitchen table.

Hermione shrugs. "Tired. My ankles are swollen. I look disgusting."

"You look beautiful," Ron murmurs.

Hermione blushes and looks away. "I'm ready for this baby to come."

Ron says nothing.

Hermione clears her throat. "I saw—today's Prophet had a great article about you."

Ron rolls his eyes and takes a sip of tea.

"I mean it, Ron—you should be proud of what you're doing. Introducing more surveillance, interacting with the Muggle world to get better intel. That's not something Cranford would've _ever_ done," she says vehemently.

Ron shrugs.

"Harry says. . . . He says Kingsley's impressed with your leadership."

"Great."

"I'm proud of you," Hermione adds softly.

"Thanks," Ron mumbles.

Hermione pauses. "I wrote up my first proposal today," she says hesitantly.

"Really?" Ron's eyes light up. "That's great. What about?"

"Elf rights. Of course," she blushes.

Ron laughs. "Of course. So?"

"It prohibits employment for no pay in Ministry-owned workplaces and in public schools. Oh," Hermione adds enthusiastically, "and in any _private_ school that accepts Ministry funds for any purpose."

"Hogwarts," Ron grins.

"Exactly."

Ron laughs. "Brilliant."

Hermione blushes. "I don't know if it'll go anywhere. It has to go through about 1,700 committees and—"

"You won't let it get buried," Ron says with confidence.

"No," she meets his eyes. "I won't. Neville says—he says that we may able to make some deals—get some committee support before it goes to the Wizengamot. . . ."

Ron nods and smiles.

"Neville says it probably doesn't hurt to be married to the Head of the Department of Aurors," Hermione adds shyly. "He says some of the stodgy old wizards might take my proposals more seriously because I'm related to _you_."

Ron doesn't reply. He takes another sip of tea.

"Getting Carrow was a big deal. I never . . . I never said anything."

"Don't," Ron says quickly. "You don't have to—"

"I didn't want you to go," Hermione interrupts him. "But I know why you had to."

Ron nods and looks down at the mug in his hands.

When he says goodnight, he's not sure if he imagines it, but she seems almost reluctant to let him go. "I love you, Hermione."

**Day Twenty.**

When he knocks, she opens the front door almost immediately. As if she's been waiting for him by the door. "I have something I wanted you to see," she says. Her eyes twinkle and she seems in good spirits.

"What is it?" he smiles and follows her inside.

She pushes him down on the couch—the second time she's touched him in weeks—and sits next to him. She lugs a giant photo album onto her knees and flips it open to a page she's marked. She slides it over to him.

Ron immediately grins. "Felix Felicis."

"What you _thought_ was Felix Felicis."

"It _was_ a pretty goddamn lucky day," Ron laughs. He runs a finger over the photograph. A younger image of himself is looking back at him, smiling broadly, resplendent in his Quidditch uniform, with one arm loosely wrapped around Hermione, who is gazing up at him adoringly.

"Yeah," Hermione agrees thoughtfully.

"You were so ridiculously in love with me," Ron laughs, looking back down at the photograph. "How did I miss that?"

Hermione blushes. "_You_ were so ridiculously in love with _me_."

Ron grins. "I was. I was ridiculously in love with you."

"Didn't stop you from shagging Lavender Brown, as I recall," Hermione's eyes narrow, but she's laughing. "I can't believe I didn't know it."

"Me neither," Ron grins at her. "You knew we had absolutely _nothing_ to talk about. What else were we going to do with all of our afternoons?"

Hermione pokes him in the side. "Study?"

Ron laughs again. He flips through some more pages of the album—Hermione and Ron at Hogsmeade; at the Burrow; at Bill and Fleur's wedding; in Australia; on their wedding day. "Nice," he finally closes the album and slides it back to her.

Hermione hesitates for a moment. "You were my first," she finally murmurs.

Ron hesitates, too. He doesn't believe that she actually wants to reminisce about the night they first had sex. Or about how she yelled at him because he already knew how to do it—and wasn't terrible at it like he was supposed to be. Although this memory is _so_ Hermione that it makes him smile.

"I know," Ron finally replies. "That's why Cormac McLaggen is still alive, anyway," he teases.

Hermione snorts. "It's always been more important to me."

"Sex?" Ron raises an eyebrow. "I don't _think_ so."

"No, you idiot," Hermione lets out an exasperated sigh. "Just . . . all the stuff that comes with it. That first time with you. . . . it was a really big deal for me. Up here," she taps the side of her head.

"For me, too," Ron replies. "But—it doesn't mean—with you it was different. But that doesn't mean there's . . . it doesn't mean that that mental stuff is connected to _every_ experience, you know?"

"Why not?" Hermione sighs. "Why can't it be? Why can't sex just be . . . that? Something you share with the person you love and no one else?"

"I mean—it _can_ be. Of course. But—for goodness sakes, 'Mine, I was in love with you _and_ shagging Lavender Brown at the same time."

"I know."

"So, surely, you understand that _sometimes_ it doesn't mean_ anything_."

Hermione is quiet for a minute as she considers this. "When we broke up—do you remember that?" she asks. "Before we got married."

Ron gives her a sideways glance. "Yeah," he replies warily.

"It was—what—three months?"

"If that."

"How many girls did you shag then—six? Nine?"

Ron is relieved to find a somewhat amused expression on her face. He laughs. "I don't remember. Is that right?"

"You literally couldn't keep track—or didn't bother to, anyway," Hermione shakes her head. "I was so mad at you."

"Well, I was miserable without you. I must've missed all the yelling," he grins.

Hermione chuckles. She can't help herself. "You and me—we manage to make such a mess of things," she looks at him.

"Sometimes," Ron meets her eyes. "But we also made this," he puts his hand on her stomach gently.

Hermione looks down at his hand and puts her own hand on top of his. They sit in silence for a minute.

"Do you want to spend the night here?" she asks quietly.

"What?"

"Do you want to—I mean, if you want to, you can."

"I want to," he says immediately.

**Day Twenty-One.**

He wakes up with Hermione in his arms. Even though she's eight months pregnant and ready to pop, making love to her was incredibly satisfying. It was awkward and soft and silly and not as aggressive as it used to be, but being with her again—where he belongs—was a high like no other.

He is ridiculously in love with this woman. He can't get rid of the smile on his face as he watches her sleeping soundly. His wife. Carrying his baby. He doesn't want this moment ever to end.

"Morning," she murmurs when she finally wakes up.

"Morning," he smiles at her.

She opens her eyes wider and takes a look at the clock. "It's late."

"I thought you could use the sleep."

"We have to get to work."

"Yeah," he says, but he doesn't move.

"And you didn't run. . . ."

"No," he shrugs. "My running stuff is at the Burrow . . . and besides, I'd rather be here."

Hermione smiles and snuggles against his bare chest. She runs a lazy finger down his hard stomach. "They say sex helps get the baby out."

"Is that what we're trying to do—get the baby out?" he grins.

"I don't know. Sleepless nights and diapers and crying and. . . ." she trails off.

"Sounds perfect," Ron chuckles.

Hermione is quiet for a minute. "You can't sleep with other women, you know."

"I know," Ron replies.

"And you can't lie to me. Ever again."

"No, definitely not."

"Except about my cooking."

"Which is the best," he says immediately.

Hermione laughs. "I'm not over it, you know."

"I know."

"I don't know when I will be."

"I know."

"And don't think that you'll be able to leave anytime soon without checking in with me on the hour."

"On the hour, got it."

"But I think you should come home," she murmurs.

"Really?" Ron asks, a smile lighting up his face.

"Yes."

He wraps his arms around her tightly and holds her. "Thank you," he murmurs.

"I _do_ love you, you know."

"I know."

"Even when I'm angry with you."

"I know."

"Even when you don't deserve it."

"Which is often, I know."

"You're my person. You always have been."

"And you're mine."

**Chapter 19.**

"Don't you throw that—argh, James!" Ginny grabs the spoon out of his hand and tries to wipe up the mashed potatoes that are now covering half the table.

Molly Weasley smiles in delight. "Oh, he's just experimenting, dear. Come here, my little one," Molly comes across to James's high chair and scoops him up into her arms.

"Experimenting to be a terror," Harry adds with a grin.

"Then he'll fit perfectly into this family," Arthur Weasley notes from the head of the table.

"Don't listen to them, Angelina," George Weasley grins devilishly at Angelina Johnson, who sits next to him at the dinner table. "We're angels. At least, I am. I don't go around killing people for sport," he winks at Ron, who is seated across the table from the pair.

Ron throws a roll at George's head.

"Merlin's beard, we have _two_ toddlers in this family," Ginny snorts as she bounces James up on one knee.

"You know, in the Muggle world, James Bond gets all the girls," Charlie Weasley points out.

"Well, we don't live in the Muggle world," Hermione smiles as she pulls little Rose Molly Weasley tightly into her chest. "And James Bond is a fictional character."

"So's _Ron_," snorts George. "If the Daily Prophet keeps salivating over his latest heroics I may have to file a missing persons report with the Ministry. Who the hell _is_ that guy?" He grins.

Ron laughs. "Hey, watch it, George. The fictional version of me is amazing enough to help out in the shop on weekends—when I could be spending time with the most beautiful woman on the planet," he scoops his newborn daughter out of Hermione's arms and kisses the top of her head. "The _two_ most beautiful women on the planet," he corrects himself, glancing back at Hermione.

Molly Weasley positively beams at her son. "Maybe Rose will follow in her dad's footsteps," she suggests.

"Probably best if she follows in her mum's," Ron replies easily. "Kingsley tells us we'll all be working for her one day, anyway," he grins.

Harry laughs. "'Mione, I'll have to insist that, when you're named Minister of Magic, you give me my own department—far away from your husband. He drives me bollocks on a daily basis complaining about all of the paperwork and that bloody tea from Costa that he continues to buy every bloody day. Despite the fact that he's a wizard and need not buy tea from muggle shops. Confidentially, I'm thinking of getting the Minister to create a mission to Zanzibar just to send Ron there."

Everyone laughs. Hermione's eyes twinkle. "Unless you and Gin are going to be taking Rose, don't you dare. Daddy does half the night shift," she looks affectionately at Ron.

"I have it down to a science," Ron boasts. "I change her diaper and we fall asleep together in the nursery."

"Yeah, and the science is she'll never be able to sleep through the night on her own," Hermione rolls her eyes with a smile.

"Don't remind me," Ginny groans. "Particularly not now."

"What? What's that?" Molly Weasley snaps to attention.

"Anything to share, Gin?" Hermione's eyes widen joyfully.

"Do tell, baby sister," George pipes up. "Is there another little Weasley on the way? We definitely don't have enough of them," he gives her a sarcastic grin as he surveys the landscape. Victoire (Bill and Fleur Weasley's daughter) and her cousin Lucy (Percy and Audrey Weasley's daughter) play with dolls in one corner of the room while Louis (Bill and Fleur's son) sits on the floor banging on a Muggle telephone. Fleur bounces baby Dominique in her lap, while Molly does the same with little James.

"Yes," Ginny blushes. "We just found out," she looks at her mom and then Hermione. "With Rose and everything that's been going on, I didn't notice that I . . . well, anyway—"

"Oh, darling, I'm so happy for you and Harry!" Molly Weasley exclaims and kisses James in her arms before picking him up and going over to her daughter to give her a hug and a kiss.

"Congratulations," Hermione smiles affectionately at her best friend and sister-in-law, squeezing her hand. "I'm so happy for you guys. And that means Rose will have a best friend . . . soon?"

"I'm definitely farther along than I'd have expected," Ginny admits. "I've just been so preoccupied. I didn't—well, it doesn't matter, anyway. In five months or so we'll have a new little Weasley joining the clan," she laughs. "So, yes, with any luck, he—or she—and Rose should be in the same class at Hogwarts," she raises a glass in salute toward Hermione and Ron. "To the next generation," she smiles.

"You were getting pretty chunky there," George notes thoughtfully. "I was wondering."

"George!" Angelina smacks his arm.

Harry coughs.

"Substandard, brother," Ron says in an amused tone, rocking Rose in his arms while she falls asleep.

"Alright, not my finest," George agrees. "How about this one—hey, Gin, do you and Harry ever come up for air or was this a planned pregnancy?"

Ron snorts.

"You are such a prat, George," Ginny glares at him.

"Maybe the Ministry needs to start sending _Harry_ on travel," George is delighted with this new angle. ""Keep you two from breeding quite so often."

"Okay, thanks, George," Harry's face reddens as Ron and Charlie laugh.

"So immature," Ginny rolls her eyes.

"Boys," Molly Weasley warns. "Come on, now."

"Why are you dating him, Angelina?" Ginny turns to George's girlfriend. "Surely you can do better."

"I keep asking Harry the same question," George grins back.

"Argh! I'm going to punch you," Ginny yells at George before bursting into laughter. "You are awful. Angelina, you should've gone for Percy. He's the _good_ brother. Better looking, too."

"Hey!" George replies with a grin.

"I thought I was the good brother," Ron pipes up.

"You're the idiot brother," George replies.

"I'm married," Percy struggles to get a word in edgewise. His wife, Audrey, is chuckling next to him.

"But she'd have given your kids some athletic talent," Ron offers. "Since you have none to spare."

Angelina blushes.

"Can we stop talking about my girlfriend shagging Percy?," George smirks.

"Can we stop besmirching my athletic abilities?," Percy laughs.

"Boys," Mrs. Weasley warns again.

"Ron gets away with saying whatever he wants because he's a _hero_, 'member?" Ginny grins affectionately at Ron. "You know mum collects every bloody article the Prophet does about you, right?"

"I expect a report on our roast beef and pudding this evening," Bill smiles. "Ron _and_ Harry at the same table!"

"And Hermione—she's famous, too," Ginny laughs.

"They don't pay attention to crusading for elf rights," George points out. "Killing Death Eaters is sexier."

"Well, when it's someone as sexy as me doing it," Ron grins.

"Boys, honestly—Arthur, control your children," Molly Weasley looks over at her husband for help. But he's laughing, too. Molly rolls her eyes.

"To Ginny and Harry," George announces, raising his glass. "You can't drink, but we can!" he downs his butter beer in one swallow.

"To Ginny and Harry!" the rest of the table echoes.

"To the Weasley clan," Arthur adds affectionately, raising his own glass. "Growing bigger every day."

Ron takes Hermione's hand and squeezes it. She looks at him.

"Cheers to that."

**THE END.**


End file.
